


Last Straw

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John has had enough, Oneshot, Separation, Sherlock is awful, This one really is bad, Unhappy Ending, argument, this doesn't end well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock says too much at a crime scene and finds out that sometimes the price you pay for not shutting your mouth may be a bit steep.





	Last Straw

**Author's Note:**

> I was a bit down when this one asked to be written.

“OK” John sniffs and lets go of his elbow. “Fine. Do as you wish. I’ll go and pack. You can have the flat to yourself tomorrow evening the latest.”

The crime scene is deadly silent. All eyes are on the two of them, right where John has just been stitching his wound and berating him for leaving without notifying anyone. Right where he has just rather sourly informed John that he doesn’t need his input on the manner in which an investigation should be run and he won’t be taking vital advice from people who had no idea how to even look at clues properly, not to mention avoid normal everyday life errors.

He has to admit that mentioning Mary might not have been his best move. Mentioning Mary is always a trigger for John. As it was right now.

Lestrade is moving towards them, but his full focus is on John, who is now rising slowly (hurt, pulled muscle, abrasions on his knees and hip, lacerations on his palms) and dusting off his trousers with a grimace. John is now turning away, still slowly (hip join affected, too) and picking up his bag.

“I’ll be sending someone for the rest of our things by the end of this week, once I find a place for Rosie and me. Then you can do whatever you wish with the upper room. And if in some kind of childish pique you try to do any damage to any of my possessions, I will require replacements. I’ll send the list to your brother. From Friday onwards, do as you please. You can set the flat on fire, for all I care.”

Donovan moves fractionally closer, watching them like a curly-haired hawk. 

Somehow the sounds around become muted and twisted. No words find their way to his ears, except for what John is saying in that terrible, stiff and broken manner that means he is hurting, hurting more than he can cope with and more than he can express in words. This is a sound of finality and a sound of something cut and of a door being shut and locked.

“I will remove Rosie immediately. Harry will be happy to look after her while I pack. She is young enough to forget, you see. The last thing I want is to give her another adult in her life who will disappear suddenly. I will have enough problems explaining her the idea of a mother who got shot and died before she got to know her.”

“Oh, so you’re pulling this out again?” he mumbled, trying to get an upper hand in the conversation that had gone very far off course.

“I wasn’t the one who brought my wife up, was I?” John asks in a deceptively mild way. “I just use an example you’ve already mentioned. And I absolutely agree, Mary was not a good choice for me, but she  _was_ Rosie’s mother. And she is dead now, lost to Rosie. So I won’t allow Rosie to build any more attachments that may get broken just because the object of said attachment is too stupid to stay alive… because he keeps running after criminals without waiting for fucking backup. So, a life free of all obligations for you, Holmes” and now he doesn’t know if it hurts more that John has used his surname or the dismissive tone or the fact that he is suggesting removing Rosie from his life for good.

And John is walking away and the whole crowd of incompetent idiots is standing there, letting him pass and he is left sitting propped by a wall, with a half-stitched cut on his shoulder still bleeding, with an abrasion on his cheek from where a meaty fist hit it and with something quite akin to desperation stabbing through his heart and throttling words in his throat.

He doesn’t want to know what expression is now on Lestrade’s face or what it is that Donovan is mumbling under her breath, but he knows it anyway.

They all may feel they need him, but they barely tolerate him on a good day. Who they  _like_  is John Watson. And John Watson had just shook the dust of their shared life off his feet, figuratively, and walked out of the whole situation as if walking out of a bad movie in a cinema..

And he can’t understand how it all went that wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot.


End file.
